


Yule

by chubbystoutpenguin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bert survives RtS, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Holidays, M/M, Marley Arc (Shingeki no Kyojin), One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28344018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chubbystoutpenguin/pseuds/chubbystoutpenguin
Summary: Porco invited Bertholdt to spend Yule with his family.Takes place post-timeskip, in a canon-divergent universe where Bertholdt survives RtS.
Relationships: Porco Galliard/Bertolt Hoover
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Yule

**Author's Note:**

> ... idk why I wrote this. Sorry if this seems so random. Was originally going to post this as part of Haywire, but it's too long to be considered a ficlet.
> 
> This takes place in the same universe as Haywire though: post-timeskip, canon-divergent AU where Bertholdt survives, probably a few years after RtS when things have sort of resumed to normalcy but not totally because, well, canonverse. I always headcanon that these families would have various coping mechanisms to move on with their lives.
> 
> I promise I will write a more coherent/chronological fic for this ship that will ground them better in canonverse instead of these random little fics. Anyhoo, I hope this brings some comfort to those who are celebrating the holiday season.

“Are you sure?”

It must be the tenth time Bertholdt asked that question. Porco gritted his teeth.

“No,” he panned. “Go home. I changed my mind.”

Bertholdt blinked. He scratched his head. “Oh. Well, I can turn back…” He stopped. “Wait. Are you joking?”

Porco only gave him an unblinking glare.

“Okay,” Bertholdt said, putting one hand up. “Okay, fine. I won’t ask anymore.”

“You better not. We’re literally right in front of my parents’ house. Why would I change my mind?”

Bertholdt shrugged. “Sometimes you see things more clearly when it’s right in front of you.”

Another one of Bertholdt’s vague philosophies. “Sage,” Porco muttered.

But he was beginning to feel nervous. This was only the second time he had brought someone to spend Yule with his family. Pieck and her father had been the first set of guests. But it was Pieck; it was no pressure. This felt different. This was Bertholdt. Not that he had told his parents anything about him, but—

“Let’s go over the rules again,” he said, feeling his paranoia spiraling.

Bertholdt raised his eyebrows. “Okay.”

“First rule—“

“No work talk,” Bertholdt interrupted. “No talk about the Warriors. No talk about missions.”

Porco peered up at Bertholdt. “And second rule…”

“No Marcel, unless your parents bring him up.”

There was a brief pause. “Yes. Good.”

Bertholdt sighed. “I know you probably want to choke me out by now, but are you _sure_ sure you want me here?”

This time, Porco wasn’t even annoyed. He suddenly understood why Bertholdt had asked for confirmation so many times. His own nerves were probably rubbing off on him.

Finally, he nodded. “I’m sure.”

“And your parents are…?”

“They know who you are. It’s fine.”

Bertholdt shifted on his feet. “Okay. If you say so.”

“Any other burning questions?”

Bertholdt thought about it. “Yes, actually.” He glanced towards the house. “There are going to be three Galliards in there. I can’t call you by your last name.”

Porco gnashed his teeth together. “You can call me Porco. Just this time.”

The smile that spread across Bertholdt’s lips almost seemed victorious. “Deal.”

Porco rolled his eyes. He walked up to the door of the house and raised one hand to knock. “Ready?”

Bertholdt nodded. Porco brought his fist down on the wooden door.

Almost immediately it opened, and he was pulled into a warm bear hug. Porco let out a graceless _oomph._ His mother may stand half a foot shorter, but she could still squeeze the life out of him. Not that he would ever complain. Porco dreaded the day when he could no longer feel those arms, wrapped tightly around his torso.

But. This was a holiday, and he shouldn’t be thinking such morbid thoughts.

“Happy Yule, dear!” his mother chirped. She let go and held him at arm’s length, staring. “Did you get taller? You got taller!”

“Mama, you saw me two weeks ago.”

“And your friend…” She sauntered into the cold. “Oh my! Even taller!”

“Happy Yule, Mrs. Galliard.” Bertholdt’s offer for a handshake was answered with another bear hug. It was a comical sight; his mother barely reached Bertholdt’s chest. The look on Bertholdt’s face was priceless. “Thank you for having me.”

“Of course! We’re always so happy when Pock brings home friends. Especially around this time.” She briskly ushered them towards the house. “Now please, come in. It’s cold outside.”

They walked into the house — humble but warm — and Porco was suddenly reminded of how much he loved this time of the year. Dainty hand-strung garlands hung across the walls, splashing the house with dabs of red and green. The scent of ginger and warm spices filled the air. His mouth began to water at the thought of his father’s gingerbread baking in the oven. They settled their coats and bags in the living room, but it wasn’t long before—

“Is that Pock?” a man’s voice cried out. His father emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “You got taller!”

Porco’s protest was drowned in an embrace. “…I swear we need to record my height or something.”

“That’s a great idea. We should do that now! We haven’t done it in so long…”

Mrs. Galliard cleared her throat. “Darling. We have a _guest_.”

“Oh. Right!” Mr. Galliard went in to give Bertholdt a hug. He received it a little more gracefully. “Bertholdt, is it? My goodness, you’re tall. We should put you up on the wall too.”

Bertholdt merely smiled. “The wall?”

“Come see.”

Mr. Galliard led them both to the small space by the window; red and green chalk lines marking the beige paint. The faded green mark stopped at Porco’s chest.

“My boys’ heights,” his father said, fondly. He beckoned. “Come here, Pock. Let’s do one for this year.”

He obeyed and stood against the wall, avoiding Bertholdt’s gaze. His ears were getting hot.

“You style your hair too much,” Mr. Galliard complained. He pressed the red chalk down, as closely as possible to Porco’s scalp, and grazed the wall with it. “Now you, Bertholdt, come here.”

Bertholdt seemed hesitant. “Are you sure…?”

“Of course!” Mr. Galliard fished around for a blue chalk. “Although I’m not sure I can reach you. Even Pock’s surpassed me.”

He stood on his tiptoes and tried to reach the top of Bertholdt’s head. He groaned. “Yeah. No. My back will be the death of me.”

Mrs. Galliard tutted as she passed them to the kitchen. “Mr. Galliard and his back! If I only have a coin for every time he talks about it…”

Mr. Galliard merely laughed. He handed the chalk to Porco. “You do it, son. I’ll go check on the food.”

He left. Porco sighed and turned to Bertholdt. “Alright, against the wall.”

“Are you sure…?”

“They said it’s fine. So it’s fine.”

Bertholdt still seemed reluctant.

Porco folded his arms. “You know, it’s extremely _rude_ to not do what a host asks of you…”

“Alright! Alright.”

Bertholdt quickly stood against the wall. Porco stepped closer. “Stand still.”

He stretched his arm as high as he could, marking just under the top of Bertholdt’s head. It was probably inaccurate as hell, but he wasn’t going to deign Bertholdt the dignity of seeing him standing on his tiptoes. Or have their faces even closer than they already were. Not right now, at least.

They stepped away from the wall to look at the results. Bertholdt’s blue outdid his red by a lot, as expected.

“Congratulations,” Porco said. “Now I have another reminder of how much taller you are than me.”

Bertholdt didn’t respond. His fingers merely grazed Porco’s as they cast one last look at the specks of green and red and now — blue. Porco turned away when the colors began to sear his eyes.

“Come on,” he said, hooking one finger over Bertholdt’s; a beckon. “Let’s go help out.”

The kitchen was a literal hot mess. The pleasant warmth turned into a gloopy heat as soon as they crossed the doorway. Plates of food occupied the counters, squashed closely to one another; scents mingling together in the air. They arrived just in time to stop a stack of silverware from tipping over. Mrs. Galliard rushed over.

“Oh thank you so much! I was stacking them in a rush and I went to check on the potatoes and then I…” She trailed off.

“Let me help, Mrs. Galliard.”

She looked flustered. “But you’re a guest, dear, you shouldn’t…”

“It’s alright, you did all this work already. Do you want me to help set the table?”

Mrs. Galliard nodded. “Yes. Yes, that’d be great, actually. I’ll carry the food out with you.”

Bertholdt smiled and left, carrying the stack of silverware out carefully.

She nudged at Porco once Bertholdt was out of earshot. “I like him.”

Porco swallowed. “Mama…”

“Oh, look at you.” She squeezed his arm. “Why don’t you go help out your father? Meet us at the table later.”

Porco was glad for the distraction. He joined his father at the corner, where the wood-fired oven was burning brightly. The heat pricked at his skin.

Mr. Galliard wiped his brow, smiling at Porco. “Come to check up on the gingerbread?”

“You know you never get them wrong, Pa.” He touched his back. “You should sit down. I can finish up the rest.”

“I’ll be fine, Pock.” He laughed, although the sound was more subdued than before, more muted. Up close, Porco could really see the wrinkles forming on his face, doubling with every year that passed. “I sit on my ass most of the year. At least let this old coot finish his own gingerbread.”

“I don’t want you to exert yourself.”

“Shush. I bake, and you worry only about eating it all.” He hummed. “You used to be so impatient that you’d eat the dough out of the bowl. Remember that?”

Porco sighed. “Yes. But I was little.”

“You’re still little to me.” Mr. Galliard shook his head. “You’ll always be little. Even if you’re taller than me now.”

“And drink, and smoke, and go to work, and…”

“It doesn’t matter.” He touched Porco’s chin. “Which is why you should just sit back and relax with your friend. Let me do this for you.”

“He’ll be fine without me for a bit.”

Mr. Galliard chuckled. “Well…” He grabbed the bowl from behind him and put it in Porco’s hands. “Humor your father then. You can lick the dough while I bake this last batch.”

Porco sighed. He supposed he got his own stubbornness from someone in the family.

“Your mother’s happy that you brought someone, by the way.”

Porco looked around. “I don’t know. I think I just created more of a hassle.”

“Please. We love having people over. Especially your close friends.” Mr. Galliard poked at the cookies in the oven. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Pieck’s been busy.”

“With work?”

Porco nodded. “She’s often paired with Zeke.”

“And Bertholdt with you?”

“Sort of. My Titan and Pieck’s are fast, so it makes sense to pair each with someone who isn’t as mobile—“ Porco stopped. “Sorry. No work talk.”

“Oh Pock, I don’t mind.” Mr. Galliard peered at him. “I’m just glad you have someone by your side.”

Porco blinked. “It’s just work, Papa.”

“Well, I’m still happy that you have someone who understands.” He looked towards the oven. “You didn’t have a lot of that, growing up.”

It was suddenly equally difficult for Porco to look at his father. So he stared at the dough in his hands instead. “It’s my own fault. I didn’t make it easy for the other kids.”

Mr. Galliard chuckled. “Yeah. You were something.” He squeezed Porco’s arm. “But my point stands, Pock.”

When Porco looked up, his father was staring at him.

“It wasn’t easy to see you alone, after… you know.”

He faltered a little.

“Your mother and I will always be here for you,” he continued, voice regaining its strength. “But I know we’re out of touch. I know you see things out there that neither of us would ever be able to understand, so…” He cleared his throat. “It’s good that you have Bertholdt. Pieck. And if we can do anything to make them feel welcome, then it’s never a hassle.” He nodded. “Got that?”

Porco’s mouth felt dry. “I know.”

“And if it ever becomes more than work, then…”

Oh no. “Pa, please don’t—“

“All I’m saying is,” Mr. Galliard cut in. “That maybe, you know, you should just lean into it. If it happens. Grip onto whatever happiness comes your way.”

He comically grabbed onto thin air.

Porco’s ears felt unbelievably hot. “That’s really not why I—“

“If it happens!”

Porco let out an exasperated groan. He saw no other way out other than to agree.

“Fine. Yes. I’ll consider it.”

“Good.” Mr. Galliard patted Porco’s arm. “I know I don’t have much good advice to pass around these days, but relationships is still one of my stronger suits, you know?”

“Really now.”

“Well, I got your mother, didn’t I?”

They shared a chuckle. Porco put one arm around his father.

“Thank you. Really.”

He received a pat on his hand.

“Of course.”

They watched the fire flicker in the oven for a beat, licking at the clay walls. Porco scooped out the dough with one finger, put it in his mouth.

“… The gingerbread tastes great, by the way.”

Mr. Galliard grinned, sliding the cookies out from the oven. “I guess that’s another thing I haven’t lost touch on.”

When they finished laying all the gingerbread out on a plate, they carried it out to the dining room. It was as Porco suspected, his mother seemed to have gone the extra mile to make more food and decorate the table. A ridiculously big pine centerpiece stood at the center of the table, surrounded by a crowd of dishes and five sets of silverware.

Bertholdt and his mother were bent over an old book. Porco could recognize the jacket of that book from a mile away.

“—I had my sister paint this,” his mother said.

Porco grimaced. It was a toothy picture of him as a toddler, cheeks bloated and red.

“How old is Porco here?”

“Three. The best age.” Mrs. Galliard sighed. “And of course I have to save all these…” She leaved through loose pages of faded propaganda posters, Porco spread across most of them. She stopped at a group picture. “Oh look at that, dear! You’re in here too.”

“Mama,” Porco groaned.

“What? They’re great pictures.”

Bertholdt snickered. “I especially like the painting.”

“Of course you do.”

“Well, since we’re all here…” Mrs. Galliard snapped the book shut, thankfully. “We can dig in. Let’s gather around the table.”

They took their places. The fifth set of silverware remained empty as they filled their own with food and wine.

It felt surprisingly easy, to have dinner together. Porco thought that with the conversation bans, the dinner would be stilted and filled with awkward silences. But it wasn't so. His parents talked about their home reorganization, their philanthropy efforts, the little tiffs going on between the neighbors. He and Bertholdt talked about the different cities they got to visit. Silly bureaucracy stories. It felt normal, a rarity in the last few years.

The wine flowed long after the food was gone. Dishes were cleared and stacked in the sink, Mrs. Galliard insisting that they soak overnight and be dealt with tomorrow. Today was for celebration only, she said.

“Play your harp then, Mama.”

Mrs. Galliard flushed even redder. She fanned herself. “I can’t subject Bertholdt to that!”

“But I’d love to hear, Mrs. Galliard.”

Mr. Galliard nudged at her.

“Go on, Ilse,” he said. “You’re getting very good at it. Play a Yule song for us.”

Mrs. Galliard huffed. “Well, I’m only blaming the wine if I’m bad.” She disappeared into the back of the house before re-appearing with a small harp. She balanced it on her lap nervously. “All these eyes on me!”

“Take your time, Mama. You’ll be fine.”

Mrs. Galliard plucked at the strings, testing them. She cleared her throat.

Notes daintily chimed out of the harp. Mrs. Galliard sang along, her voice deep and lulling. When she missed a beat or two, she merely shook her head and laughed, the song tilting along with her mirth. Porco remembered that voice, tucking him into bed every night. Now he heard it occasionally — rarely — left to recall it from his own feeble memories when he’s away from home. When the night became lonely.

They showered her with applause when she finished. Mrs. Galliard’s face was positively beet red at this point.

“I didn’t know you played and sang so well, Mrs. Galliard,” Bertholdt said. He sounded transfixed.

She shook her head. “Nonsense. You must have listened to much better music out there.”

“I’m being honest. You have a beautiful voice.”

Mr. Galliard squeezed his wife’s knee. “She always says we only compliment her because we’re family. Now she can’t use that excuse anymore.”

“Oh, stop it!” Mrs. Galliard huffed, although she was grinning very widely. “Bertholdt is a polite boy, of course he will say it’s good.”

“But so does your teacher, Mama. You’re being modest.”

Bertholdt raised an eyebrow. “You’re still learning? I’d think you’ve played for years.”

“You’re too cheeky!” Mrs. Galliard exclaimed. “Yes, I’m still learning, dear. Pock surprised me with it months ago.”

“Oh?” Bertholdt leaned in, interested. Porco gulped down his wine, feeling the embarrassment coming on.

“It’s a good story,” Mrs. Galliard said. “He came home one day with this harp. Said he has someone in Marley willing to teach me if I want…”

She beamed.

“Can you imagine that? Me, at fifty three years old! Learning an instrument. I mean, I’ve always wanted to, of course. It really surprised me that Pock managed to get a teacher who’s willing to come here once a week. She’s such a lovely woman too.”

Bertholdt looked at Porco, questioningly. “You got a Marleyan to come to Liberio?”

Porco grimaced. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s of course not nothing!” Mrs. Galliard bristled. “I can’t imagine how much time you spent searching for her. Not to mention how much you’ve paid that woman. I told you I’d be fine going to Marley once a week, I have the honorary status anyways…”

Porco coughed. “I told you I don't like the idea of you going outside Liberio alone, Mama.”

“Oh, Pock.”

She came over and planted a big kiss on Porco’s cheek. He grumbled half-heartedly as she held him close. “Look at you. I can feel your heart beating like a little canary.”

Bertholdt stared at them. “That’s really sweet of you to do that, Porco.”

“It’s really nothing.”

“Hush. Now _you’re_ being modest,” Mrs. Galliard said.She planted one last kiss on top of Porco’s head before retiring to her seat. She clapped her hand. “So! Should we open another bottle?”

But they never did. Because when Mrs. Galliard finished her glass, she lulled immediately to sleep, and Mr. Galliard had to carefully shake her awake.

“Ilse, let’s get you to bed,” he whispered. He smiled at Porco and Bertholdt. “Are you boys staying over?”

They looked at each other.

“I don’t mind,” Bertholdt said.

“Are you sure? We can always walk back—”

“I’m sure.”

Porco turned to his father. “I’ll set up the extra bedding then. Don’t worry, Pa.”

They bade each other good night.

Porco led Bertholdt to his room. There was a spare one down the hall, but he was grateful that Bertholdt didn’t even so much ask for it. Instead they laid down the extra blankets and mattress on the floor, leaving just enough space for Porco to pull down his own mattress from the bed frame, squashing them together.

“Let’s face it,” Porco said, before Bertholdt could ask. “There’s no way you can climb into that tiny bed with me. You’d jut out like a sore thumb.”

Bertholdt shifted on his foot. “You don’t always have to do this, you know.”

“And I told you that I won’t do something if I don't want to, right?”

“You did.”

“So stop asking.”

Bertholdt only smiled.

It was quiet as they laid on the floor, the wine settling low in their abdomens and buzzing in their heads. Porco knew Bertholdt would never close the gap between them. He wasn’t one to try and “take” from him, as Bertholdt would put it, choosing to leave it up to Porco instead. It didn’t make any sense to him, but he found it easier to just accept Bertholdt’s words. His father’s words rang true in his mind: there were some things he couldn’t comprehend.

So it surprised him, when Bertholdt looped their fingers together and drew closer. The buzzing in his head grew busier, noisier.

“Thank you for inviting me tonight.”

Porco swallowed. “I told you it’s no problem.”

“Yes, but…” Bertholdt paused. “I actually had a good time.”

“You weren’t expecting to?”

Another pause. “Not exactly, no.”

It only drew a chuckle from Porco’s lips. “I’m glad you’re finally being honest.”

“I guess an old dog does learn new tricks.”

“You’re not an old dog.”

“I feel like one.”

Bertholdt laid his head on the crook of Porco’s neck. Again it took him by surprise.

“Thank you,” he said, muffled.

“You already said that.”

“Not just for inviting me.”

He peered up, just enough to meet Porco’s eyes.

“Your parents never even once mentioned my father. Or about…” He gestured. “I know you set some rules with them too.”

Porco swallowed. “It’s just common sense.”

“Mm-hm.” Bertholdt’s hand was squeezing his now. “Still. Thank you, Porco.”

He responded by casting down a withering glare. Bertholdt grinned.

“I’m sorry. Are we back to formalities again, Mr. Galliard?”

“Don’t start.”

Footsteps dithered outside the room. The light that trickled in under the door was snuffed out, leaving them in nothing but the moonlight. A door locked close, somewhere in the house.

“Are your parents happy to have me?”

Porco shrugged. “They’re happy whenever I bring someone home.”

Bertholdt was silent for a while. “Do you wish you’ve brought someone else home tonight?”

He gave Bertholdt an incredulous look. “Who? Pieck has her family. Should I have brought the war chief home? The commander?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No I don’t. I told you you’ll have to be specific with me.”

Bertholdt sighed.

“I mean,” he started. “That maybe you deserve someone other than me.”

Porco rolled to his side, facing Bertholdt. “Who do you think I deserve?”

Bertholdt shrugged. There was no answer to that, and they both knew it.

Porco brought their laced fingers to his lips. “I think that maybe _you_ deserve someone else.” He paused. “Someone who understands.”

Bertholdt was quiet for a moment, turning over the words.

“I don’t know,” he replied, quietly. “I like having someone who doesn’t.”

Porco swallowed. He didn’t know how to respond to that. Although he could feel his mind going haywire, stirring up heat in his face.

A hand closed over his chest. “Your heart is beating fast again.”

Fuck. “That’s just how it is.”

“It’s beating faster by the minute.”

Porco grumbled, although he didn’t draw away.

Bertholdt shuffled lower, pressing the side of his face to Porco’s chest. His legs curled up, tangling with Porco’s. “Is this how you feel about me, Galliard?”

Porco closed his eyes. “Shut up.”

“From now on, I’ll talk to your chest to find out what you really think of me.”

“Bertholdt,” Porco said. He touched Bertholdt’s chin, tilting it upwards. “Shut up.”

He leaned down and pressed their lips together. His hand came to rest on Bertholdt’s nape, pulling him closer, the kiss deeper. It was familiar — it was home — and yet his heart still didn’t register this, still erupted and pounded blood through the course of his body, ringing in his ears.

They broke away. Bertholdt pressed his ear back on Porco’s chest.

“You’re going to have a stroke.”

Porco snorted. “We can’t have strokes.”

“Can we?”

They thought about it, and broke into a quiet laugh.

“Imagine that,” Porco muttered. “A heart attack that acts so fast, my body can’t heal in time.”

“To know that you think so highly of me is reassuring, Mr. Galliard.”

That earned Bertholdt a kick to the shin. Porco could feel him laugh, the sound vibrating into his chest.

“… Pock,” he finally mumbled.

“Hm?”

“You can call me Pock. Only when we’re alone.“ He looked down, into Bertholdt’s eyes. “And you don’t have to listen to my chest to know how I feel. I’ve told you many times already.”

Bertholdt’s smile was answer enough.

“Although,” Porco continued. “I do sort of like how this makes me feel taller than you. For once.”

Again they shared a quiet laugh, broken only by the sound of a more raucous laughter. Porco perked up warily. It was coming from the room next to them — his parents’ room.

Their voices were muffled, but Porco could hear the lilt of his father’s words, the soft hum of his mother’s. They began to blend into a soft tune, floorboards creaking to a certain rhythm.

“I thought your mother fell asleep.”

Porco sighed. “Sometimes she wakes up still drunk.”

The melody continued. A giggle or two in between.

“Maybe we should’ve just went back to your house,” Porco mumbled. His hand absently ran through Bertholdt’s hair. “It would be quieter.”

Bertholdt had shut his eyes. His face was tilted towards Porco, an ear turned up to listen to the song.

“No,” Bertholdt said. His breaths beat along to Porco's heart. “I like it here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Add me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/stoutpengi) and [Tumblr](https://chubbystoutpenguin.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk more about Gallibert/Beruporu. I post a lot more on Twitter though.
> 
> And if you want to read more about these two, please check out my ficlet collection Haywire (also on AO3).


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